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“The remarkable thing about Elektra is the setting of a scream to music. It is one of the most naturally musical sounds the human voice can make, but far too often it is seen as ugly. What Strauss knew was that the ugly sounds are the ones that reveal the most about human passions. Screams, sobs- these are set to music because they are themselves the music of humanity.”
Amy contemplated the opera they had just seen, absorbing Hannibal’s words as her eyes took in the glittering crowd around her. Women wore evening gowns or sequined cocktail dresses, men wore what they thought were stylish suits. Here and there were people in jeans, who should have been turned away at the door. None of them seemed to recognize her with her hair in a chingon and her body wrapped in raw red silk cut asymmetrically across her collarbone. She may have had her face on television for the entirety of her disappearance, but it rarely occurred to people that the blonde in front of them might actually be Amazing Amy.
“She achieves her revenge and then dances herself to death,” Amy said. Although the opera as written had said that Orestes slew their stepfather and mother while Elektra cheered him on, this production had the pair of them hold him down and cut into him with their knives together, and had Orestes hold their mother in place while Elektra strangled her. Then she danced in a mad frenzy, triumphant in her murderous errand, until her heart simply gave out.
Hannibal smiled.
“I think Elektra would be glad to die like that. Don’t you agree?”
There was never any fight with Nick when Amy flew to New York or San Francisco for the opera, or anywhere else for that matter. She was sure it was a relief for him. He cared for their daughter while she was away, and she appreciated it, and that was perhaps as good a marriage as either of them wanted. If it occurred to him that she was having an affair with a psychiatrist, it would have probably just made him smug that she was seeing a psychiatrist at all. It was enough of a home life for them.
The juniper notes of Hannibal’s cologne mixed with the bitter peach and moss in her perfume (vintage Mitsouko- her lover had given her a bottle when she’d contemplated the notion of a green rosebud that never bloomed into red.) She was probably imagining the metallic tang of blood; he would never have been so careless as to smell of such a thing in company, and it had been ages since her own hands had been stained.
Amy’s heels clicked across the floor, and she only gave a passing glance to the full length mirrors that decorated the corners of the opera house. That glimpse was enough to prove how well she and Hannibal had matched, without even trying; his suit was dark enough to pass for black to the untrained eye, but she glimpsed a hint of scarlet in the fabric. Just a hint. A drop of gore on a midnight-colored canvas.
It comforted Amy to think of how good they looked together. It allowed her to think that their dalliance was a matter of aesthetics, or perhaps synchronous storytelling. Focusing on the perfection of their match was easier than focusing on the twisting feeling in her chest when he took her by the arm, or the strain she felt when he wasn’t there. Call it love or call it need, it was a feeling she didn’t care for.
Every man wanted an ideal woman who could not exist, and Hannibal was no less unrealistically demanding of his romantic partners than anyone else. At least his ideal woman was someone she enjoyed being- glamorous and cruel and clever as the devil. If she hadn’t been a perfect subject for that kind of role play, maybe he would have forcibly formed her into it. She could respect that.
“I suppose it was just as well for Elektra,” Amy said with forced carelessness. “She got to choose how she died and also how her enemies died. What more could she ask for?”
Stepping out of the opera house, she fished her phone out of a small red clutch.
“Do you mind if we go back to the hotel? Anywhere else we go at this hour is going to be too noisy to talk. We can get drinks at the bar- their cocktails are half decent.”
Hannibal tilted his head in acquiescence.
“If you like. I also have a fine bottle of brandy in my possession that I bought for this trip, if you would prefer to go straight to our room.”
Amy offered no objections, and it wasn’t long before they’d hailed a cab. The dingy backset felt like an unpleasant jolt of reality after the opera house; she could almost feel her lovely dress pick up grime from the seat. Her mood only grew sourer when the cab driver turned on a podcast. She held her breath when she heard the host’s calm, midwestern voice, but his topic of conversation turned out to be sports, and she allowed herself to relax. It wasn’t an episode of What Really Happened. Not every shut-in with a microphone was dangerous to her, after all.
Hannibal looked at Amy with an almost imperceptible smile that showed he knew about her worries. He placed his hand on top of hers- she never would have shown weakness by asking for his hand, but she would accept the comfort he offered. Amy didn’t need his help to make it through the mere existence of true crime, let alone a podcast by some lazy-voiced fool who investigated cases that ‘just don’t make sense’, but couldn’t even go beyond insinuations to actually accuse her of anything for fear of lawsuits. It was a waste of time to even worry about it. Still, it was an unpleasant thing to know about, and her thoughts wandered where they might. Hannibal might not be trustworthy (any more than she was) but if there was anything he was skilled at, it was changing someone’s minds- in this case, soothing her and making her feel safe.
No one was ever really safe. The illusion of safety was all she could really hope for.
Neither Hannibal nor Amy spoke much on the way up to their hotel room. She looked for the small tells on his face and body that might let her know what he had on his mind- the slightest of smiles, perhaps, or an impatient clenching of a hand. Everyone had tells, and his showed a mostly-suppressed hint of excitement. He might be able to control such signs and use false ones to manipulate those who thought they were smarter than they really were, but Amy doubted he was doing it now. If he knew what she could see in him, that made it a secret communication between them, a code of sorts. She was good with secrets.
Their hotel suite was luxurious without being ostentatious, which included the small area for drinks. Hannibal didn’t head that way, though. After making sure the door was closed and locked and the curtains were drawn (even though they were on a high floor- someone might be playing Rear Window with a telescope somewhere), he retrieved a simple leather case from beneath his bed.
“I am afraid I was not entirely truthful about the brandy,” he said. “I hope you’ll forgive me. It was all in the spirit of surprise- a pleasant surprise, I hope.”
Some part of Amy idly wondered if the case contained a bomb. It didn’t stop her from placing the case down on the bed, flipping the locks and opening it.
“Be careful,” Hannibal said lightly. “Someone has to clean these sheets, after all.”
It took a moment for Amy to recognize the head inside the box. The fact that there was a head in it at all was less surprising than the fact that it was meant to be a gift for her. It wasn’t her husband, it wasn’t one of her parents, it wasn’t any personal enemy she’d made in her school days. The head of a stranger wasn’t much of a gift, nor did Hannibal really need to go out of his way to get it.
“At least his voice won’t be droning anymore,” he said, and then Amy almost squealed like a sorority girl as it all fell into place. She looked from the gift up to its giver, the delight sparkling in her eyes matched by Hannibal’s genuine smile. “I had thought of leaving his head in his own recording booth with a microphone stuck in his mouth like a stuffed pig at a feast, but in the end, I suppose sentiment overcame theatrics.”
The true crime podcast that had terrorized Amy’s life, with each episode about her case inching closer and closer to the truth, would never have another episode. She could cry with relief. Any man could ply her with gifts and drinks, but how many would kill for her? She had killed Desi for Nick and been repaid with nothing but cold resentment. To find another who knew what a gift murder could be- maybe that really was love, after all.
“They say that Nero gave the head of his wife to his mistress,” Hannibal idly mused. “I like to think my gifts are a bit more practical.”
Amy grabbed him by the lapels of his fine suit and kissed him brutally. Tragic Greek heroes, mad Roman emperors- none of them could compete with the passion she felt in her veins. Death on its own had never been a turn-on for her, but she had never had it given to her as a prize from a hunt.
“You’re crazy,” she said. “You’re crazier than a rabid dog, and I love you so much.” The words slipped out of her mouth so fast she didn’t even regret them.
“And you’re as vicious as an opera diva, and I love you.” The tone in Hannibal’s voice might have been sincerity. Maybe. Amy didn’t want to care, but just for one moment she wanted to believe (not pretend, really believe) that everyone was telling the truth. Even her. It was a disgustingly maudlin feeling, but there it was.
Hannibal kissed her back on the neck, like the villain in an old vampire movie. Maybe he would devour her like one, and maybe her blood would be so poisonous that she would sicken him until he fell to the ground alongside her. Her hands dug into him as if to rip him apart, and he held her so tightly she imagined she might faint- appropriately enough for a vampire’s victim. When at last he pulled away, she pressed her head against his chest. Maybe it was odd to find comfort in a monster, but she had to find it somewhere.
“Did you really bring a bottle of fine brandy?” she asked. “Did you infuse it with his blood?”
“Bone marrow, actually. It provides a much more savory flavor.” It was probably a joke, but it charmed her anyway.
“Home bartending now? And you’re already so good at home cooking!” She kissed him again, gently this time. “I only hope I can return the favor some time.”
“There are some rather irritating patients you might find very interesting to meet…”
When two liars love each other, is it really love? Amy wasn’t sure, and she wasn’t sure how much it mattered. Perhaps she should have been concerned that she might become his next meal if he ever tired of her, and perhaps he should have worried that he would become her next case of ‘self-defense’ should she ever become bored with him. But how could that happen when they were both such fascinating people?
She smiled to think about it as she turned around and let him start to unzip her dress. Amid fears about death and falling in love, she would keep dancing herself to death.